Until the Dawn (16 page)

“You aren’t staying,” Quentin said. “Mr. Gilroy can drive
you into the village or he can take you to the city. I don’t care which, but you aren’t staying here.”

“You seem to be forgetting whose house this is,” Nickolaas said with a tight smile.

Quentin reached inside his coat pocket and withdrew a sealed envelope. “You gave me complete power of attorney over this house, and I say you can’t stay here. We agreed you would give me time alone with Pieter to get reacquainted.”

The old man extracted himself from Pieter’s arms, his gaze scanning the room. His withered face took on a faraway quality, as though enchanted by the sight of his childhood home. He walked the perimeter of the room, noting the old paintings on the wall and the view of the river out the window. It had been sixty years since he had been in this house, and everything was exactly as it had been the day he left. It must be like stepping back in time. His face carried a wistful smile mingled with sadness as he took in the room. At last his gaze tracked to her.

“You must be Miss van Riijn,” he said pleasantly.

Sophie flushed, stunned that he should know her name, but perhaps it shouldn’t be a surprise. It seemed Quentin was right about Mr. Gilroy funneling information to the elder Vandermark.

“Yes, I am Sophie van Riijn,” she said, dipping into a little curtsy. What was the proper way to greet a man like Nickolaas Vandermark? He was a living legend, and one of the richest men in the world.

Nickolaas reached for her hand, executing a courtly bow and pressing a quick kiss to the back of her hand. “I’ve heard a great many interesting things about you. We need to have a little chat.”

“Not in this house, you won’t. I’ve got power of attorney over this house, and you aren’t welcome.”

The old man’s smile did not waver. “Take me to court,” he tossed off over his shoulder.

“Don’t think I won’t,” Quentin said, but Nickolaas was relaxed as he guided Sophie to the settee. After they were both sitting, he patted her knee.

“Tell me about the water lilies in Marguerite’s Cove,” Nickolaas said pleasantly.

Water lilies? She looked to Mr. Gilroy, accusation in her eyes. She’d confided in Mr. Gilroy because he’d seemed so kind and she longed for a nonjudgmental friend. But his sympathy was merely a ploy to trick her into opening up.

“I can show you!” Pieter chimed in. “They are down by a crook in the river, and they never die.”

“I’d prefer to hear about them from Miss van Riijn,” Nickolaas said. “There have been lilies blooming in that spot for a long time?”

A trickle of unease curled through her. It was on the precise spot where the dead body of Karl Vandermark had been found. She cleared her throat. “Y-yes,” she stammered. “They’ve been there as long as I can remember.”

“And oysters . . . you mentioned that oysters flourish on that spot.”

“They do. Yes.”

“Fascinating.” He withdrew an envelope from his coat pocket and tossed it across the room to Quentin. “I’m revoking your power of attorney. That is a court order signed by a judge. I’ve got complete control over the house again.”

Quentin tore open the envelope, sputtering in disbelief as he scanned the document inside. “I’ve spent the past three weeks drawing up demolition plans
on your order
. Now you’re changing your mind?”

“Quentin, I love your command of the English language. You grasped my meaning so quickly I don’t even need to repeat myself. You make me proud.”

Quentin stood. “You’ve been hounding me for years to learn the art of demolition so I could someday blow up this house. When I suggested you simply hire a competent demolition expert, you insisted it could only be done by someone with Vandermark blood. I’ve tried to reason with you. I’ve tried to appeal to your sense of history. To Pieter’s heritage. To the wanton destruction of precious art and antiquities that ought to go to a museum. Nothing convinced you, but now you waltz in and declare you’ve changed your mind? I am owed an explanation. Now!”

Nickolaas seemed remarkably calm in the face of the younger man’s ire. He simply smiled. “I’d like to learn why water lilies grow in that cove. Perhaps the same reason crocuses grow on my wife’s grave?”

“Now I know you’ve lost your mind,” Quentin muttered, collapsing into a chair and rubbing his leg. He looked ready to explode.

Nickolaas turned to look at Sophie. “My wife loved crocuses, and I planted some on her resting spot. Crocuses are supposed to bloom only once per year, but those flowers bloom three times a year without fail.” He looked at Quentin with a hint of triumph. “Your vaunted
science
can’t explain that. Something magical is at work.”

“And someone’s mind is clearly slipping into dementia.”

“The manners of young men these days.” Nickolaas sighed, shaking his head in mock despair and looking at Sophie. “Did you know I raised Quentin from the cradle? His parents died in a hotel fire when he was only a few months old. I took him into my home and raised him like my own son. And after Quentin’s wife died and he was incapacitated by the injury to his leg, incapable of caring for young Pieter, who do you suppose stepped in to raise the child?”

“You did, Grandpa!”

He smiled warmly at the boy. “Indeed I did. Of course, I always asked Pieter to call me Grandpa, since ‘Great-Grandpa’ seemed like such a mouthful. I was sixty-six years old when Pieter was born, a time when men should be basking in their golden years, but I geared myself up to undertake the task of raising yet another child. I had Pieter for two years before Quentin was well enough to take responsibility again. I never asked Quentin for a word of thanks, never asked for a dollar in compensation. All I’ve ever asked of him was to blow up one house, and he acts as if I had ordered him to reroute the Nile.”

Quentin clenched and unclenched his fist. “Miss van Riijn, would you please escort my grandfather to the river and show him the water lilies? Share whatever wisdom you can offer, then he can be on his way.”

Nickolaas acted as though he had not heard. “The ancient Egyptians believed the water lily symbolized the eternal cycle of life and death. I think there may be something to it.” He reached inside his coat and withdrew a small cloth bag. “Look, I’ve brought some incense. We can have a séance—”

“Pieter, please leave the room,” Quentin said bluntly.

“But Grandpa just got here—”

“I’m not asking again,” Quentin said in an implacable voice.

“You won’t make Grandpa leave without letting me say good-bye? Because it wouldn’t be the first time,” the boy accused in a dark voice.

“Out!” Quentin shouted. “Now.”

Pieter reluctantly turned around, dragging his feet the entire way out of the room. Quentin waited until the sound of his footsteps disappeared down the hall. He limped to the hallway door and slammed it shut with a force that made Sophie flinch.

“There will be no talk of séances in front of my son,” Quentin said in a tight voice. “Nor will there be tarot card readings,
fortune-tellers, the casting of horoscopes, or consulting with charlatans. No shamans, palm readers, or voodoo priestesses.”

Nickolaas tilted his head back to look down his nose at Quentin. “How about a team of archaeologists from Harvard?”

“What?” That took Quentin aback.

“Archaeologists. Men trained in the study of human history through the excavation of historic sites and careful analysis of artifacts, documents, and other physical remains.”

“I know what archaeology is,” Quentin snapped. “Why do you want to bring them here?”

Sophie was intrigued, too. This estate had a fantastic history—surely an archaeologist’s dream. Every step she took on Vandermark land had once been trod upon by Algonquin Indians, Caribbean pirates, Dutch fur traders, or British soldiers.

Instead of replying to Quentin’s question, the old man turned to her. “Forgive me for airing family gossip before you, but I gather you are already well acquainted with this estate and Vandermark history. I needn’t tell you that the spot where the water lilies are flourishing is where my father died. I have reason to believe he was searching for something of great value. I want to know what. I want experts brought in to excavate the spot.”

Now even Quentin was intrigued. “You think there’s something hidden in the river? What?”

“I don’t know,” Nickolaas said. “But when I was in Amsterdam, I paid a small fortune to buy an archive of Vandermark documents from the seventeenth century. It contained a number of letters written by the original Vandermark brothers, sent to Holland shortly after they arrived in America. One letter included a map hand-drawn by Adrien Vandermark himself. He sketched the cliff, the spot where the cabin had been built, plans for the future house, and the river.” Nickolaas leaned forward, the twinkle in his blue eyes vanishing, replaced by a
sense of urgency. “And he drew a circle around the stretch of the river where Miss van Riijn says the water lilies are growing. He claimed the waters had magical properties. He said it was a paradise on earth. He believed there was something of great value there. Something worth dying for.”

“Or killing?”

Nickolaas’s eyes narrowed. “Possibly. In any event, I want experts to look at the site. The house and grounds, too. I want everything thoroughly examined before we return the land to its natural state.”

Sophie held her breath, hoping this might be the stay of execution she’d been praying for. Dierenpark was a magnificent estate, and the longer the Vandermarks stayed here, the more likely they were to appreciate that fact.

“I’ll agree on one condition,” Quentin said.

Nickolaas leaned his head back, peering at his grandson with a speculative gaze. “What?”

“You can’t live here while the excavation takes place. You can live in the village or on the moon, I don’t care, but you can’t stay here.”

The steel hidden beneath the veneer of the kindly old gentleman emerged. “This is my house, and I’ll sleep wherever I choose.”

The door to the parlor banged open. “Don’t you make Grandpa leave!” Pieter yelled. “You’re always pushing him away, and he’s the only person who really loves me!”

“Watch your tone,” Quentin warned.

Pieter ignored him, pushing over a tea table and sending a crystal goblet smashing to the ground. “Leave me alone!” Pieter yelled as he tore toward the front door of the house. “I hate you, and I hate this house!”

“Pieter! Get back here!” Quentin shouted, reaching for his cane and following as quickly as he could, but Nickolaas and
the bodyguards were faster, the latter sprinting down the hall after the boy.

Sophie stood, twisting her hands in indecision. This was a family squabble and she wanted no part of it, but should she follow? This estate was full of danger for an angry, reckless boy tearing headlong toward the cliff or down the narrow, twisting deer path.

Tact didn’t matter when it came to protecting a child. Running to the front door, she saw both Vandermark men and two of the bodyguards standing on the front porch in indecision. There was no sign of Pieter, which meant he probably headed into the woods on the left or the deer path on the other side that led to the river.

“My guess is that he took off for the river,” Collins said. With a gesture to the other bodyguard, the two men darted toward the deer path.

Quentin remained frozen on the landing, his knuckles white as he clenched his cane.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Pieter didn’t mean what he said.”

Quentin’s mouth hardened, but there was worry in his eyes as he scanned the forests on both sides of the meadow. To her right, she heard the muffled sounds of the men thrashing through the overgrown shrubbery as they headed down the rutted deer path toward the river, a place where Quentin could not follow. What a frustration it must be for a proud man to be locked in helpless immobility while others searched for his wayward son.

“I’ll check the woods on the other side,” Quentin said grimly as he lurched down the short flight of steps.

“Let him be,” Nickolaas said. “The boy just needs to have a little sulk.”

Sophie didn’t think shoving over tables or yelling hatred at your father counted as
a
little sulk
, but she didn’t know how rich people behaved. Quentin ignored his grandfather, finally
reaching the bottom of the steps and leaning heavily on his cane as he hobbled toward the forest on the left.

“That man has no idea how to deal with a petulant child,” Nickolaas muttered. “All he does is scold and bark commands.”

From deep in the woods came a loud thump, followed by the panicked cries of a young boy. Then came screams.

“Oh heavens,
the bees
!” Sophie raced toward the path that led to the beehives. The eight-sided hives were kept elevated on a stand, and Sophie had a terrible suspicion that the noise she’d just heard was the entire structure toppling over in the same manner as the tea table.

She followed the shouts to the clearing in the woods, horrified at the cloud of angry bees swarming around Quentin, who held Pieter in both arms. The wooden beehives lay on the ground, covers split open while bees gushed into the air. Pieter sobbed, burying his face in his father’s neck while bees covered them both, the furious buzzing ratcheting the sense of panic higher.

Quentin’s cane was on the ground, and he lurched toward her in a horrible, lopsided gait but with considerable speed. Pieter screamed and waved his arms, frantically batting at the bees, but Quentin was helpless against the swarm. He held Pieter with both arms, and the bees crawled all over Quentin’s face while he lumbered forward. Sophie held a sapling to the side so they could pass, some of the bees still trailing after them.

“I’ll run ahead and open the door,” she hollered. Quentin nodded, still managing to move with surprising speed as they made it into the clearing before the house.

“Get inside!” she yelled to the bodyguards loitering on the front steps with Nickolaas. The fading buzzing sounds indicated they were outrunning the bees, but a sting pierced her neck and another stung her hand.

Mr. Gilroy saw what was happening and raced to lift Pieter from Quentin’s arms, hustling the boy up the steps and through
the front door. Relieved of his burden, Quentin collapsed on the landing, but the bees were still at him. Sophie batted at the furious insects, but it had little effect.